The Tricksters’ Beds

Somewhere east of Omaha
beneath a garden carved in stone
things from lost millennia
with empty sockets, yellow bones
still live in dreams we cannot share
play ancient and forgotten games
that taunt us, catch us if we dare
to dance across their hallowed planes.

I bid you now, and hear me well:
tread not upon the tricksters’ beds;
don’t give them fodder for the spell
yet swirling through their shattered heads.


Debra Kraft  Debra Kraft's website is a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association and loves to spend time she never has living alternate lives through speculative writing. She finds it ironic and somewhat inspiring to share a zip code with Hell (Michigan).

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